Growing up, my parents waffled between believing in me as a writer and a musician, and telling me to “get a real job.” Eventually, they both seemed to agree on the latter, and as an adult, I’m not sure I ever really chased my dreams the way I wanted to. This isn’t a complaint, because I have a wonderful life, but I do sometimes feel that I “settled” along the way. Watching The Fabelmans, I found myself wondering how it could have been different, and mourning for a life I never had. When it was over, I couldn’t find words (truly unusual) to express my feelings.
It’s a rare film that forces you to confront things within yourself. One gets the sense it did the same for Spielberg.
It’s a rare privilege to be given access to somebody’s private histories like this — and to see them laid so bare and shared so humbly is something else entirely. This is honest, beautiful filmmaking of the highest order.
My wife pointed out that the whole thing felt like somebody’s hazy, dream like recollection of a memory. It blurs the line between unfiltered truth and edited memory. Yet, when the results are this compelling, the truth doesn’t matter. Spielberg has once again made a universally moving film about deeply personal experiences. A stunning achievement.